


in any lifetime

by forestlove, necromantiaes



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, Alternate Universe - Ward, Arya X Gendry Week, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-19 23:08:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestlove/pseuds/forestlove, https://archiveofourown.org/users/necromantiaes/pseuds/necromantiaes
Summary: a collection of drabbles for arya x gendry week by renée & tasha.





	1. if your heart is complete

**Author's Note:**

> wasn't sure i was going to participate, but here i am! enjoy, as always, and happy arya x gendry week - renée

Sansa was betrothed to a Lord with golden hair and a velvet cape. She was rosy cheeked and gushing the last Arya had seen of her, talking of how their love would inspire songs and their children would have his hair and her eyes. Jeyne Poole had only encouraged her, begging more details at the celebratory feast as Arya’s appetite waned. With Robb married and his first child expected in but a few moons, Sansa betrothed, and Jon headed for the wall, Arya’s future was rapidly approaching. A future that, if her parents had anything to do with it, wouldn’t include the blue-eyed ward staring her down from across the hall. Gendry Waters had been unexpected, an acknowledged bastard of the King sent to ward for her father when they were only children.

All those years ago he’d been nothing but a tall, bumbling annoyance who’d watched her spar with Jon, Robb and Theon and teased her. For her height, for her temper, Gendry always found something to rouse her anger. While Arya Underfoot had been her nickname for longer than she’d have liked, Gendry had retorted that Stampfoot seemed more fitting. But that was so long ago now. Before they’d fallen into a routine of sorts, while he forged and she sat atop his bench, criticising and poking fun right back.

It was then, amongst forge fire and his stoicism, that Arya came to call Gendry a friend. When alone, Gendry seemed a different person. He didn’t scowl so much, something Arya came to realise made him seem younger, and she felt a lightness whenever he directed a smile her way. There still wasn’t flowing conversation, but she came to realise that was his way. He didn’t speak if he didn’t feel the need and for that, he was different.

Friends were one thing though. The morning Arya fell in love was another. It was cold as any other day in Winterfell, but the snow had fallen heavier overnight, and she’d stood before the forge entrance. Dragging the toe of her boot through the snow, she’d watched as Nymeria chased Shaggydog about, growling playfully.

“Mornin’.”

Gendry’s hair had been cut the shortest Arya had ever seen it, despite winter’s arrival, and at first, she hadn’t understood why. She didn’t like it, plain as that. His shaggy hair had hung just so, contrasting with the blue of his eyes. She certainly hadn’t said as much, just called him stupid for doing it and moved on.

Then, one night when the pair had snuck away from a feast to spar, he’d looked her in the eyes suddenly and paused.

_“I don’t want to be like him.”_

For anyone else, it wouldn’t have made sense. But, to Arya it did immediately. They’d talked about it before, his hatred of the resemblance so many spoke about upon seeing Gendry for the first time. In some cases, the resemblance was brought up at feasts when Lords and Ladies were deep in their cups and reminiscing. There was no love lost between a bastard boy and his drunken, adulterous father.

_“You aren’t.” Arya had hit his knee with her wooden sword, “Now, up.” _

At first, she’d hated the way King Robert dictated the way Gendry presented himself. He shaved to the skin of his jaw, not daring to grow a beard, and he hadn’t let his hair grow long since the King’s last visit. Now, however, with flushed cheeks and nose, Arya could see the appeal.

“Morning.” she sounded breathier than she cared for and her smile widened, “Work?”

“Nah.” Gendry shrugged, tilting his chin to where Nymeria had cornered Shaggydog, “Could hear them, thought you’d be with them.”

Arya shook her head, “Was just coming to tell you I’ve been called upon. Lessons.” She rolled her eyes and nudged him gently, “See you at lunch?”

“Of course, m’lady.” Gendry bowed and Arya’s face fell, all as his transformed into a grin.

It was their way, her shoving hard and storming off as he cackled loudly. It wasn’t that which had her feeling feint and wishing that she was anything but the lady he thought her to be.

She’d made it upstairs, skirts gathered in her hands as she grumbled to herself about stupid boys and their stupid words, when she heard laughter. But it wasn’t that of her brothers, nor Sansa and Jeyne’s incessant giggling that echoed up to where she stood looking down at the yard.

Nymeria and Shaggydog had found a new wrestling partner in a darkhaired boy, his furs covered in snow as he rolled and tumbled with them. His hair, short but as dark as anything against the thick white covering the ground, gave him away. Her heart lurched as Gendry laughed some more, pulling up from Nymeria, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. As if he’d known she was watching.

Then, Arya swallowed, looking away as the first thought to come to her mind was – _that’s what it feels like_.

Six moons had passed, and Arya hadn’t felt any surer of what to do with her feelings. Not until Sansa’s betrothal had been announced and she’d known that she was surely next. With Gendry’s gaze upon her for the entire night, she’d grown more restless. Until finally, came the words that spurred her on. She’d excused herself from dinner, citing tiredness from the day’s lessons, and was loitering in the hallway when Gendry appeared. He’d followed her, as he always did, as Arya always expected.

But this was different.

His hair had grown back in and he’d cut it again since the day in the yard, though she was thankful it was not nearly as short. For all they said of resemblances between him and the King, Arya thought Gendry was far handsomer. His eyes were kinder, his brows more stubborn and the soot never quite left his skin. Even now, dressed in his finest, she could see a line of it across his jaw.

The soot she wanted to mark her own hands and face, so desperately at times that her mouth felt dry. His eyes she wanted on hers always and his mouth just the same. She felt her cheeks warm, all before the seriousness of her desire crashed over her.

It must’ve showed for Gendry raised an eyebrow, “Tired of celebrating, m’lady?”

“Shut it.” She snapped weakly, her gaze falling to her feet.

She heard him shuffle closer, until his furs came into view and she looked up tentatively. He’d always towered above her, frustratingly tall from the moment she’d met him. Only now, it wasn’t nearly as frustrating as it was distracting.

“What’s wrong?”

Arya swallowed and leaned back against the wall, “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” He frowned, “You seem awfully sad for just nothing, Arry.”

_Arry. _

No one but him called her that.

No one but him teased and comforted her in equal parts, sparred with her and wrestled with Nymeria without hesitation.

In turn, there was no one she’d loved in this way _but _him.

It was with all that in mind that Arya met his eyes, her own watery as she found the words.

“I don’t want to be like Sansa.”

Words so like his that night he’d fisted his hair and cried himself hoarse, worrying over his future, fearing that it might hold the drunken whoring that his father’s life had reduced to. Where he had more bastards than he knew what to do with, wards for Lords to brothers of the Night’s Watch.

His frown deepened, “Sansa?”

“I don’t want to be married off to a Lord whose love for me relies only on what my family can do for his.” Arya said, wringing her hands.

“Lord Tyrell seems taken with Sansa.” Gendry replied slowly, “Maybe… You’ll be paired with a Lord who is just the same.”

Arya looked up sharply at that and shook her head, “I don’t want that! I don’t want them, Gendry.”

He stood straighter at that, brows drawn low as he took his time asking his next question.

“What do you want, Arya?”

It was unspoken but she heard it all the same.

_Who do you want?_

She didn’t take the time to say what she meant, not this time. Instead long fingers buried in his furs and she pulled him forwards, pushing up onto her tiptoes simultaneously. Their lips met and Arya melted into him, one hand moving up to cup the back of his head. He tasted of ale and stew, his lips dry against hers, and she only wanted more.

They might’ve been kissing for hours or longer and she wouldn’t have known, for when he finally pulled away, she made to follow him. She’d dreamt of kissing him for the six moons since she’d known of her feelings, if not longer. Kissing him in the snow when they were flushed, after feasts in darkened corners like now, holding his hand for all to see.

He was all she wanted.

“Arya.” His hands gripped her shoulders and she opened her eyes, tongue wetting her lips as she looked up to him again.

“Gendry.” She murmured, “Don’t let me marry a Lord. I don’t want to be anyone’s lady but yours.”


	2. if your heart is complete / redux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why HELLO THERE. its genuinely been years since i wrote something i thought worthy of publication on this platform so. forgive me if im a bit rusty. i hadn't even planned to partake in axg week, but. renée is my favourite enabler and this ship has me in a goddamn chokehold!!!! - tasha

Gendry knew his place. He had ever since he was barely a boy of five and ten, sent North to foster with his father’s dear old friend. Even in King’s Landing, they whispered about Ned Stark: his four sons and two daughters, his steely-eyed Riverlands wife; the honor and bravery he possessed, as if the whole weight of the North was on his shoulders. The first time Gendry met the man, he supposed it to be to true - Ned Stark looked exactly as the whispers imagined him to be.

But even in a place such as the North, amongst the care of the Stark family, Gendry had his place. Kept out of the public eye. Away from Catelyn’s delicate sensibilities, already weary with the presence of one bastard. And further still from Cersei’s wrath. Gendry had no doubt the latter would have had his head if he spent another minute in the Red Keep.

His place didn’t have room for the Lady Arya. Of course, that never stopped Gendry from loving her.

In many ways, he was always weak when it came to her. Nothing but a pathetic bastard of royal blood; who found curious joy in her seeing her smile, and bewildering happiness in seeing her roam the grounds of Winterfell.

Of course, it had started with the little things. The way Arya stomped her little feet. The way her eyes blazed with fire, looking so much like the steel he bent to his will. The way she’d smile with quiet warmth at Jon. The way her legs would kick back and forth as she sat upon his bench, needling him, teasing him, poking up. She’d been such a pain as she grew, and Gendry surely had contemplated running far from Winterfell whenever he managed to ignite her wrath - but the following mornings, when she’d look so stubborn, so defiant, hoisting herself onto his bench… well.

Gendry felt himself fall.

“Mornin’."

It was the week following Robert’s - his father’s, his King’s, and somehow the two never seemed to match up - visit and it still left a bad taste in Gendry’s mouth. He’d cut his hair short, cropped close to his skull, the night before. Anything to aid the erasure of Robert. He couldn’t change his eyes, his jaw, the slope of his nose and the cut of his cheekbones. But he could cut his hair, shave the scruff that peppered his skin after a long day. He could glower and stomp and hiss and growl, so unlike his kingly father - to the point where people would see Gendry, and not Robert.

“Morning.” Arya breathed as her smile widened, “Work?”

“Nah.” Gendry shrugged. His gaze flickered to the two roaming direwolves in the snow. Nymeria had cornered Shaggydog, playful growl leaving her throat. “Could hear them, thought you’d be with them.”

Arya shook her head. “Was just coming to tell you I’ve been called upon. Lessons.” She rolled her eyes, elbow reaching out to gently nudge him. “See you at lunch?”

He wasn’t usually allowed at the big lunching feast the Starks held. Usually, he supped in the kitchens with Hot Pie, the baker from outside Winterfell’s walls; or one of the guards. They discussed the little things, the easier topics - never broaching the reasons of how or why someone like Gendry came to be in this strange, wild North.

He wasn’t usually allowed, yet something that day tempted him to sneak into the hall, and sit by her side.

“Of course, m’lady.” Gendry bowed, and he watched as her face fell - his breaking out into a beaming grin. It had been years, and still, he found it endlessly amusing the way she’d break at the slightest mention of the moniker.

She shoved him hard, Gendry falling into the snow with a cackle - when the two direwolves ventured over in the chaos; sniffing curiously before licking at his face.

The laugh that sounded was the most genuine he’d ever been - away from Arya’s company. He rolled and tumbled through the snow, fresh flakes clinging to his shaved hair and longer lashes; pulling up from where Nymeria rested her front paws on his chest.

At the last moment, Gendry flicked his eyes up to where Arya’s room was. He could barely make out her silhouette - but he liked to imagine she was watching him all the same.

In the six moons that passed, Gendry learned three things. One, the Starks had begun entertaining marriage proposals for their youngest daughter. Two, Gendry was most surely in love with Arya Stark. And three, he was previously a man that never thought much of marriage, and now, it was suddenly all he wanted.

He tried to be good about it. Lose himself in the attentions of barmaids and fourth daughters, who didn’t much care if he was a bastard with no lands or titles or anything going for him. Just that he was an option - and so much better than the cruel, older men their fathers had chosen.

Gendry tried. He did. Arya wasn’t his. Highborn ladies didn’t end up with bastard boys; even if they were of royal blood. He tried - but no matter how hard he tried, his gaze would always slide back to hers.

He didn’t know what to make of the fact she was usually, already watching him.

That night, Gendry eyed her carefully as she left dinner early - calling to Jon and her father that she was tired; loitering out in the hallway as peeked from behind the heavy doors.

When he saw her, there was something on her face. In her eyes. Like she wasn’t really there; but was in fact, the most present Arya had ever been. He arched a brow. “Tired of celebrating, m’lady?”

“Shut it.” She snapped, gaze falling to her feet.

Gendry flinched slightly. He hated her like this. Shuffling closer, his palms itched and ached to cup her jaw, tilt her gaze back to him; press his lips to her mouth, find other, more exciting ways to put her mouth to good use.

But it wasn’t his place; and instead, Arya tentatively looked up at him. It was moments like those that he was most aware of their differences in height.

She still had that look in her eye, Gendry noted. He didn’t like it one bit. “What’s wrong?”

Arya swallowed, and leant away from him. “Nothing.”

Nothing? Gendry didn’t buy that. Not in a million years. Arya wasn’t the type to lose her wits, or the careful grip on her emotions - for nothing. “Nothing? You seem awfully sad for nothing, Arry.”

He could count on one hand the amount of times he’d called her that. Usually in their quieter moments, sparring and training, when Winterfell’s courtyard was close to dead; when they were watching Nymeria lazily splay in front of the smithy fires. Arry was scared. Secret. A sign that for all his posturing, bitching, moaning and groaning - Arya would always be  _ Arry _ to him, even if the Gods themselves tore them apart.

She met his gaze, and her eyes watered. “I don’t want to be like Sansa.”

Almost instantly, he’s reminded over his own worries. How he did everything and anything to be so far away from Robert. How he cut his hair, shaved his jaw; dressed differently, acted differently; worked harder and longer. And how in some ways, it still wasn’t enough. They still called him the second coming of Robert. They still called him Robert in everything but name and dedication.

He’d only cried once over the realisation he’d never escape his father. Gendry had done so in front of Arya - the only one he trusted in all of Winterfell.

“Sansa?”

Arya wrung her hands. “I don’t want to be married off to a Lord whose love for me relies only on what my family can do for his.” 

Gendry paused, considering his words. “Lord Tyrell seems taken with Sansa.” He swallowed roughly, liking the idea less and less the more it took root. “Maybe… You’ll be paired with a Lord who is just the same.”

He doesn’t say what he wants. He can’t. Gendry knows his place - and it isn’t by her side, and it certainly isn’t as her husband.

She looked up sharply, shaking her head - tendrils of hair floating down from her intricate braid. “I don’t want that! I don’t want them, Gendry.”

Something like hope bloomed in his chest. Death defying, life altering hope. If he was drunk, foolish and stupid, he may have asked her to marry him then and there. Instead, his spine straightened, brows drawing - desperately trying now to show his hand. Though, Gendry supposed, he’d shown her everything years before.

It was just a matter of whether or not she was looking.

“What do you want, Arya?”

Gendry held his breath. Arya stared. It happened within seconds - her fingers buried in his furs, pulling him towards her; their lips sliding together. She melted into him, and Gendry’s hand came up, tangling in that same braid, messing it further and further.

She tasted like everything he’d ever dreamed about having, sleeping in his too small bed in the Red Keep; daring to think one day, someday, he might have a family of his own.

He wasn’t sure what made him pull away. Maybe it was the knowledge that they weren’t in private, not really. Maybe it was the fact that she was still a lady, and he a bastard. Maybe it was all of that and none of that, and Gendry only needed to catch his breath.

He’d wanted this for so long - and now… now her lips chased his, and Gendry couldn’t breathe.

“Arya.” His hands gripped her shoulders. Slowly, her eyes peeled open, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips.

Gendry felt himself stir in his breeches.

“Gendry.” She murmured, “Don’t let me marry a Lord. I don’t want to be anyone’s lady but yours.”

And there, between them, in the darkened corridors of Winterfell, Gendry breathed a single word against her lips. “Never.”


	3. you could be the one for me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes the risk is worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another prompt, another au! enjoy, lovelies - renée

Princess Arya Stark’s personal life had been the subject of many rumours in her twenty-five years of life, from her alleged physical altercation with Joffrey Baratheon, ex-boyfriend of her sister Princess Sansa, to the summer she’d been grounded for dyeing her hair bubblegum pink. The latter had been a dare, one her brothers had certainly paid the price in suggesting when she was imprisoned within the palace for weeks at a time.

To anyone who admired her from afar, Arya was bold, usually seen encouraging her younger brothers’ rambunctious behaviour or making her thoughts known on the latest news cycle, and the polar opposite of her elegant older sister. She was a whirlwind, messy and loud, opinionated and prone to pissing off her private detail like it was her job. However, Gendry Waters had been different from the beginning, a scowling, unshakeable presence in Arya’s life whether she liked it or not.

At first, she’d _hated_ it and not been far off hating him too. The set of his shoulders and cutting blue stare always on her mind, even as she tried to sneak about London, downing shots in the seediest clubs she could find. Anywhere Gendry, in all his glowering glory, wasn’t happened to be her haunt of choice. He’d be no different from the rest, she was stubborn in that assessment. She was twenty-two and had seen the arse end of multiple details in her time as a relatively independent young woman, as independent as a royal could be in this age of media intensity.

Arya fought with teeth and claws, calling out the condescending, infantilising men for being just that. One day Gendry would dust his hands of her, say the wrong thing or get jack of her desire to evade him. One day he’d give up on her, trust unearned and hatred cemented, just like the rest. Or, she’d thought as much.

It all changed after another night in London, though this night her luck had well and truly run out some two hours earlier. A dead phone, sore feet and a wayward group of friends who’d abandoned her after round five, Arya was _lost_. Her makeup was running, and she’d forgotten her coat somewhere along the way, but they were all the least of her issues. The sun would be up in a matter of hours and she couldn’t tell her arse from her elbow, much less how far she was from home. Her mother was going to kill her, her father was liable to encourage it, and all in the name of what was _meant _to be a good night.

She’d wandered aimlessly for some time, trying to recognise _something, _anything that could point her in the direction of home. Finally, after she’d passed a nearly identical row of townhouses, Arya conceded defeat and sank onto the front steps of one. Her legs were bare, and she hugged her knees tightly, trying to ignore the way her eyes welled up. At some point in all this she must’ve dozed off because she woke with a start as a car drove past, her hair having fallen from its elaborate bun to frame her face messily.

That’s when she heard them, hurried footsteps upon the wet pavement and a voice. One that she’d normally ignore, or curse at, or mock childishly.

“Arya!”

This time, however, and every single time after it – Arya looked up. The desperation was clear and the sight of Gendry rushing towards her roused guilt, something she rarely felt for the men she saw as having been hired to babysit her. He wasn’t wearing the usual suit, but instead a thick jumper, jeans and boots. He almost looked _normal_.

“Arya.” Gendry’s face was flushed as he waved one hand about, his phone gripped tightly between his fingers. “For someone who never stops looking at their bloody phone, you sure have an issue answering it!”

She wanted to play tough, raise her chin like every other time he’d berated her for slipping his watchful eye, but instead she felt her bottom lip quivering. She was tired, cold and regretting her choice to leave her room at all. The watering of her eyes followed, naturally, and she stood shakily.

“I’m sorry.” Arya wiped at her eyes, but it was no use, the tears kept coming, “It went dead, and I was scared, and I had no idea where I was! I had no idea where you were either and –”

Gendry’s anger had dissipated slightly, whether he was uncomfortable or taken aback by her tears, and he sighed. “Okay, okay. It’s alright.” His comfort was a little awkward, but he patted her shoulder all the same. “I’ve got you.”

“I didn’t think you’d find me, and I’d be out here alone…”

“Trust me, Princess. Wherever you are, I’m not far behind.”

_Trust me._

Arya couldn’t remember anyone actually asking for her trust, they usually just expected it.

“I… trust you.” She mumbled, looking at her feet and sighing.

Then she found herself staring at him dumbly for a moment, for he’d stepped closer while comforting her. She couldn’t help taking in how nice he looked, despite being as sleep-deprived as she was. Maybe the sleepiness helped? His eyes were very blue, quite nice, and his hair never seemed completely flat. Even now, his hand remained on her shoulder, warm and ridiculously large when compared to her tiny hands. She wondered if they were rough, he certainly seemed the type to have rough hands, and if they would feel nice in hers. Or on her.

“Princess?” Gendry repeated and Arya started, shaken from her tired daze.

She straightened slightly and looked at him quizzically, attention straying again to something more relevant, “How _did_ you know I was here?”

“Tracker, Arya.” He reached forwards and tugged at her phone’s case, or more accurately the charms that hung off it. “I learn quickly.”

Then, he smiled at Arya for the first time in their three-month acquaintance, “Sometimes.”

Arya wanted to be angry, for Jon of all people had given her the damned charm in question, but instead her shoulders sagged in relief. “You’ll take me home?”

“Yes, m’lady.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Don’t call me that!” Before she sobered slightly, “You won’t tell my mother?”

Gendry merely grinned and held out his arm, “No, m’lady. So long as you play nice and follow me.”

“Oh, gods.” Arya huffed and ignoring his proffered arm, stormed off.

The ensuing laughter made her stomach churn and she looked over her shoulder to see Gendry’s face light up, blue eyes crinkled and two rows of perfect white teeth showing. When not scowling, he was handsome.

She knew then that she was fucked.

* * *

In the three years since, there’d been avoidance, confessions and the mother of all breakups. All before a reconciliation that rivalled even the more dramatic of Sansa’s relationships. Since then, they’d been inseparable. The dramatics surrounding the beginnings of their relationship weren’t public knowledge, for their relationship had only _been _public for the better part of a year. But otherwise the unruly Princess had surprised all of England, and perhaps the world, in finding her perfect match in the most unexpected of places. They’d found their normal. Or as normal as a Princess and her ex-bodyguard could manage.

Which was why, on the first properly sunny day in a month, Arya was annoyed to find herself dragged inside by Gendry. The palace had seen more than enough of them while it poured outside, lazing about in her room or the library or any of the tea rooms they could find empty, Nymeria at their heels. She’d read no less than five books in so many days, watched a seemingly endless number of movies while she rattled off trivia in Gendry’s ear, and they’d barely spent an hour outside as it was.

They’d been sitting out in the sun, Arya basking in the warmth and assuming her boyfriend felt the same. She’d just been pondering the logistics of finding ice cream when he’d taken her hand, pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder and asked her to follow him. When she’d asked _why, _he’d either not heard her, or worse yet ignored her.

_How the tables turn. _

They’d made it down one long hallway when Arya finally put her foot down. Literally.

“Where are you taking me, Waters?” Arya sighed, “The sun is calling us!”

“The sun can wait.” Gendry beamed down at her, before looking straight ahead.

Arya eyed his profile suspiciously for a few moments, enjoying the view but feeling no less curious. Just as she was about to needle him some more, he came to a sudden stop. The palace was silent, save for the sound of birds outside, and Arya looked around. She’d been so focused on Gendry she hadn’t realised they were standing outside her father’s office.

“We met here.” Gendry offered simply, pushing the door open slowly and revealing to Arya that it was empty.

_Odd, given Father is usually lurking about here around lunch._

“I’m well aware.” She replied, raising an eyebrow.

“You came in, huffy as anything because you were getting stuck with another bossy, boring arsehole with more brawn than brains.”

“Hey, I didn’t think-”

Gendry grinned down at her and pulled her hand up to his mouth, pressing a warm kiss to the back of it, “I know. Let me finish.”

Arya rolled her eyes but waved him on, a grin threatening to break out on her own face.

“It was like I’d personally cursed you out or scorned you in a past life. So small, yet so angry. Stomping about, swearing that you didn’t have need of, nor want, a babysitter. At first, I was worried that my job was over before it’d even begun, you were so intent on scaring me off. Little did I, or either of us really, know that I’d met my best friend and the love of my life.”

She felt her cheeks warm and she swallowed, “Gen.”

His eyes met hers and he merely winked before pulling her along, “Anyway, moving on. Next up,” He squeezed her hand as he led her down another series of hallways, coming to a stop outside a ballroom Arya immediately recognised. The night in question had been loud, music and lights transforming a room that now was completely empty. She’d been wearing a dress, he’d been wearing a suit. Neither had any plans to act on their feelings, just yet, if at all but –

“Our first kiss.” She blurted out before he could say a word, grinning up at him.

“Our first kiss.” He agreed softly, “I’d been thinking about it for so long and then you came out in that dress. It didn’t exactly happen how I thought it would.”

“No?” Arya asked, squeezing his hand.

“It was better.”

She stopped fighting the grin at that and he seemed to be of the same mind. He was up to something, with the smile she’d once been so sure didn’t exist seemingly becoming a permanent fixture on his face.

Without realising it, Arya tightened her hold on Gendry’s hand as they continued on, his long legs meaning she had to rush to keep up. She felt lightheaded, giddy as Gendry seemed determined to take her down memory lane. Romance had never had much of a place in Arya’s life before, yet with him it had found one without her realising.

The next stop was their bedroom, where a flushed Arya elbowed him in the ribs as he laughed and pleaded innocence. He pulled her close, pressing a kiss to her temple as they both stared into what had been their safe place for years. Time spent talking about their future, sharing secrets of their past and watching corny movies until the early hours of the morning. She’d woken up to Gendry’s messy hair and sleepy smile for so long, she no longer knew what it was to find an empty bed. For someone who’d never seen themselves happily bidding solitude goodbye, Arya could scarcely remember what it was like before his presence. She didn’t want to either.

Finally, Gendry spoke up.

“Here is where I told you I was yours.”

“I remember.” She smiled, leaning into him and resting her cheek against his arm. “I remember it all.”

They stood like that for a few minutes, Gendry’s chin resting atop her head as they reminisced. Finally, he pressed a kiss to her crown and reclaimed her hand, leading her on, more hurried than before. Arya, bemused more than confused now, followed happily, swinging their hands all the while. They descended the staircase nearest their room and Arya automatically went in the direction of the kitchens.

Instead, Gendry pulled her back gently and tilted his head.

“This way.”

Arya’s brows furrowed, but she followed nonetheless. They walked through a stateroom Bran adored and out into a small garden that housed a tree Arya had always loved. With a white trunk and branches, the contrasting red leaves that adorned it inspired awe as a child, and even now Arya found herself entranced. She walked closer and smiled, before her smile waned slightly.

“As much as I’ve enjoyed our excursion,” Arya turned, only a little exasperated, “I don’t remember anything to do with the gardens.”

Her train of thought, though, was lost as she caught sight of a nervous Gendry on one knee before her. In his hands was a small, wooden box containing a ring Arya recognised.

That’s when she started crying.


End file.
